Beatles’ or was it along the lines of, ‘I’m a Rolling Stones fan’?”
“Had he said that, he wouldn’t have got to first base.”
Carson cracked a smile. “Why are the Fab Four your litmus test for finding Mr. Perfect? Their final album was released in 1970 – a full decade and a half before you were born. Shouldn’t you be asking if he likes Def Leppard or Nirvana instead? Pearl Jam, maybe? What about Phil Collins?”
Jennifer gave her superior a withering look. “It’s a sign of respect to be familiar with such things, Mitch. You should know – you lived through that era ... cause, well ... you’re old.”
“No comment.”
“You need further proof? This guy thought Eleanor Rigby was Jude’s mother.”
Carson burst out laughing. “Enough said. He’s not a good fit for anyone.”
“Thank you. I knew you’d eventually see it my way.”
Carson sat straight and shuffled through papers on top of his desk. “Returning to planet Earth ... what’s happening with the Honey Mayville story? Have you tracked her down?”
Jennifer opened the folder on her lap and reviewed its contents. Twenty-three-year-old Becky Mayville, aka Honey, aka Hot Beckster, aka Councilman Roger Tilley’s whore mistress, was on the lam from the media and Mrs. Tilley. “I’ve got a few feelers out on the street that I hope will pan out. When the price is right, she won’t stop talking, even if you want her to. Word is a ‘classy dame’ she’s not, though the term ‘gold digger’ comes up a lot.”
Carson looked disappointed. “Splendid.” He handed Jennifer a piece of paper. “Until she surfaces, I want you to go to Met Hospital and speak with the coroner about that body they fished out of the river a couple days ago. They haven’t identified the guy, but if you can get some newsworthy tidbits for tomorrow’s Metro section, that would be great.”
Jennifer glanced at the facts Carson had provided: Caucasian male, mid-20s?, fully clothed, no wallet, foul play? “Who found him?”
“Couple of joggers out for a run. The coroner might have their names, if you’re eager to find them for a statement.”
“Did any of the Metro hacks take a shot at this?” Jennifer asked as she stood to leave.
“Shields was going to, then his mother got sick and he didn’t come in today,” Carson replied.
“Figures. He’s such a momma’s boy.” Jennifer stepped out into the bullpen. “I’m on it.”
“Oh, while we’re on the topic of mothers,” Carson interjected. “Jude’s mother – wasn’t that Lady Madonna?”
Jennifer stopped and turned to face Carson, who was wearing a huge grin. “That is why you and I don’t date. And believe me, you’re missing out on something special.”
“If you do say so yourself,” Carson countered, jotting down a note on his assignment sheet.
“Oh, I do.”
***
Jennifer never tired of she and Carson’s platonic flirtations and entertaining tête-à-têtes. In another time and place, maybe they would have gone out for drinks. As it was, the seventeen-year age gap was a tad too wide. She could wait a few years to become the trophy wife of a distinguished pre-senior citizen. At thirty-three she still enjoyed enticing males her own age – or better yet, younger ones, but not too much younger. Her current cut-off age was twenty-eight. At this stage in her potential husband’s life, his education was finished, student loans were paid off, a clear career path was established, and he’d be dying to shower a girl of her stature with all the attention she deserved, and often craved. Cassie was always warning her that being a serial dater would lead to a houseful of neutered and spayed cats and no gentleman callers.
Jennifer had no response to this scenario and continued to hope for the best, enjoying her single status as long as possible.
“One day,” she kept telling herself.
On this particular day, Jennifer hadn’t accomplished a lot. She attributed this to working a Sunday against her will, due to the new owner’s edict that reporters be scheduled one weekend a month to keep things fresh. “There’s news happening, or there isn’t, no matter who’s available to write it,” argued the crotchety old scribes accustomed to their regular Monday-Friday gigs.
Jennifer stopped at her desk to get her reporter’s notebook and walked two blocks (instead of the normal ten on weekdays) to her car for the short trip to Metropolitan Hospital. The early evening mugginess that had blanketed the city for days was keeping people indoors, including the petty street criminals, or so said the Police Chief. For Jennifer this news didn’t hold much sway, as she’d always felt comfortable when walking alone and travelling by herself on the subway. Part of her strength was her intimidating glare, even when wearing her usual short, fashionable business dresses and low-heeled shoes. These clothes represented her outer armour, regardless of the flimsy material they were made of, but it was her steely, no-nonsense, ‘Don’t you dare think of approaching me, punk,’ stance that sealed the deal. Years earlier, after her roommate was assaulted while on a pub crawl, Jennifer attended a free self-defence class the college offered and took the instructor’s words to heart: “Keep your head up and eyes forward,” he’d advised. “Look like you belong.”
Although this wisdom had no doubt kept her safe on the mean streets, Jennifer often wondered if it had also deterred prospective suitors from approaching her for a date. Maybe I should tone down my attitude when out socially. Otherwise, I’ll soon be assembling carpet covered scratching posts throughout the apartment, she thought, as she parked in front of the hospital, and then walked into the lobby to the security desk.
“Can I help you?” the petite female officer in her early 20s asked, looking up from her smartphone where her Twitter feed was displayed.
“Hi, my name is Jennifer Malone from The Daily Telegraph newspaper. I’m here to speak with the coroner. I believe his last name is Richmond or possibly Singh.”
“Oh, hi,” the guard replied, brightening up. “Can I just say that I love your work? I’m a journalism student – second year.” She looked to her left and then her right. “I’m only doing this job for the money until I graduate. I’m Maryanne, by the way,” she said, eagerly extending her hand for Jennifer to shake.
“Ah, a fan,” Jennifer said, giving her admirer a quick handshake.
Maryanne removed her hand and stood, pointing to a nearby corridor by the Admitting area. “The Coroner’s office is next to the morgue, down this hall to your left. As for who is in, it could be either Martin Richmond or Alpa Singh.”
“I was close,” Jennifer said with a smile, acknowledging her mistake. “Always double check your information before asking a question. I hope they still teach that old gem. I might have skipped that class.”
“It’s not your fault,” Maryanne offered. “Generally, hospitals have one coroner, but we currently have two as Dr. Richmond is retiring this week. Dr. Singh is his replacement.”
“Oh. I suppose one can only take seeing so many dead people before wanting to hit the beach to watch a bunch of live bodies parade
